“Must we go through with this?” Florence was rapidly losing enthusiasm for the venture.
“I’ll admit the idea doesn’t look quite as attractive as it did this afternoon. All the same, I’m determined to go through with my plans.”
“What can you hope to find down in that well?”
I did not answer. I noiselessly crossed the yard ahead of Flo. When I reached the old wishing well, I flashed my light into the circular interior. It was dark and dank and likely full of frogs, but not of the princely variety. Besides, I already had one too many good men desirous of feeding out of the same nosebag for life with me—or at least that’s what I’d thought until recently. Lately I’d seen so little of Jack, I was starting to wonder if my fatal fascination might be on the wane.
As I looked down into the well, I’d have rather died than admit it to Flo, but my courage very nearly failed me.
“Better be careful with that light,” Florence warned. “That is, unless you want Mrs. Covington to come out and catch us.”
I switched off the flashlight and thereafter worked in darkness. I took the rope ladder from the old carpet bag and fastened the two iron hooks over the stone ledge. Next I lowered the ladder into the well, listening until I heard a faint splash in the water below.
“Now you stay here and keep watch,” I told Flo. “I’ll be down and back again before you know it.”
“What if the ladder breaks?” Florence said pessimistically, seating herself on the stone ledge of the well. “Rope deteriorates with age, and who knows how long that ladder’s been stored in your damp basement.”
“It’s safe enough—I hope.”
“In case you slip and fall, just what am I to do?”
“That’s your problem. Use your ingenuity,” I said. “Now hand me the flashlight. I’m on my way down.”
By daylight, a descent into the well had seemed to me an amusing stunt; but now as I cautiously descended into the damp, circular pit, I was forced to admit that for once in my life I might have let my spirit of adventure get too much of an upper hand on my common sense.
“What do you see?” Florence called softly from above. “Anything?”
I clung with one hand to the swaying ladder, while with the other I directed the flashlight beam about the circular walls. The sides were cracked in many places and covered with slimy green moss.
“What do you see?” Florence called again. “Are any of the bricks loose?”
“Not that I can see.” My voice echoed weirdly. Intrigued by the sound I tried an experimental yodel. “It sounds just like a cave scene on the radio down here.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, you’re in a well,” Florence said severely. “Furthermore, if you don’t work fast, Mrs. Covington will come out here and give us the tongue-lashing of a lifetime.”
I descended deeper into the well and resumed my examination of the walls. There were no loose bricks, nothing to indicate that anything ever had been hidden in the cavern. Reaching the last rung without realizing it, I stepped, not into space, but water, then my foot struck a solid foundation.
I hastily pulled myself back onto the ladder and shouted up to Florence. “Flo, the water isn’t more than a foot and a half deep. There’s an old boot or something of the sort floating around. You won’t catch me drinking any more of this water.”
There was no reply from above.
“Florence!” I called out, flashing my light upward.
“Quiet!” Flo hissed. “I think someone is coming.”
“Mrs. Covington?”
“No. Two men. They’re turning in at the gate.”
I began to climb the rope ladder as quickly as I could.
“You never can get out in time without them seeing you,” Florence hissed down again. “I’m ducking out.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“They’ll see me if I don’t. Stay where you are, Jane, and I’ll come back after they go. What about the ladder? It’s sure to give you away.”
I lowered myself into the well several rungs and stepped off into the water. To my relief, it came just below my knees.
“Quick! Pull up the ladder!”
“No time!” said Flo.
Florence removed the iron hooks from the stone ledge and let the ladder drop into the well. I barely was able to catch it and prevent a loud splash.
All was silence. I switched off my flashlight and huddled against the slimy wall, listening intently and hoping that Flo had been able to conceal herself.
“This is the place all right,” I heard a masculine voice say from the mouth of the well. “Wonder if the old lady is at home?”
“There’s a light showing.”
The voices faded away, but after several minutes I again heard voices.
“The old lady must be inside the house. Funny she wouldn’t come to the door. They say she’s an odd one, though.”
The two men were directly above me at the mouth of the well.
“Want a drink?” I heard one ask.
The accents of the voices were unusual and seemed faintly familiar to me. It dawned on me that the two men must be the Texans, Mr. Coaten and his friend. However, I could think of no reason why they should call upon Mrs. Covington.
I didn’t have much time to muse upon this unusual turn of events because just as I’d placed the voices, a bucket splashed into the water beside me.
I groped for the old boot which floated nearby and dropped it into the bucket. The bucket was pulled up, and a moment later I heard an exclamation of wrath from above.
“See what I’ve drawn up. These old wells must be filled with filth!”
I had hoped that the strangers would immediately depart, but instead they loitered by the well, talking.
“We’ve been wasting entirely too much time on this,” said the man whom I took to be Mr. Coaten. “Suppose we were to offer Ted a hundred dollars to sign the paper. Would he do it?”
“I think he might, but the girl is the one who’ll make trouble. She’s shrewd.”
“We’ll get around her somehow,” the other said. “This thing can’t drag on forever. I have work waiting for me in Texas.”
The voices gradually died away, and I heard no more. However, from the snatch of conversation, I was convinced that Abigail’s suspicions regarding the Texas strangers had been well founded. But what had brought the two men to Greenville? If Abigail or Ted owned property, I could have understood why it would be desirable to adopt them, but as it was, nothing about the situation made any sense.
To keep from freezing, I gingerly waded around and around in the well. It seemed ages before Florence thrust her head over the ledge and called softly:
“Are you still there, Jane?”
“Right where you left me,” I said through chattering teeth. “I’m frozen into one big icicle! Get me out of here.”
Flo lowered the bucket, and I tied the rope ladder to the handle with numb fingers. Florence hauled it up, and again hooked the irons to the ledge of the well.
Stiffly, I climbed toward the surface. I had nearly reached the top when the beam of light chanced to play across a section of brick which hitherto had escaped my notice. I halted and traced the rectangular pattern on the wall with my fingers. It was not an ordinary crack.
“Are you coming?” Florence called down impatiently.
“I am,” I said as I emerged from the well. “And don’t you dare say that this night has been a failure. I’ve just made a most astounding discovery!”
Chapter Fifteen
My startling appearance, rather than my words, seemed to make the deepest impression upon Florence. My shoes and stockings were wet, my coat and dress were smeared with green slime, and strings of moss clung to my hair.
“You look like Father Neptune emerging from the briny deep,” Flo uncharitably pointed out.
“I’m freezing to death.” I tried to stop my teeth from chattering but failed miserably. “Come on, we’re going home.”
Florence hauled up the rope ladder from the well. She squeezed out what water she could and stuffed the unwieldy thing back into the carpet bag.
“What were you saying about a discovery?”
“Oh, nothing of consequence,” I said as I rubbed my hands together in a futile attempt to restore circulation. “Merely an opening in the side of the well. It probably leads into a tunnel. Nothing you’d be interested in, I’m sure.”
“Jane! Are you certain?”
“I’m not certain of anything except that I’m going home!” I started squelching across the lawn with Florence hurrying after.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Florence said. “I know you had an awful time down in the well, but it wasn’t my fault those two men arrived just when they did.”
“Did you get a look at their faces? From their voices, I took them to be Mr. Coaten and his friend.”
“That’s who they were. I’m sure of it, but I can’t imagine why they came to see Mrs. Covington. At any rate, they didn’t get into the house. I’m sure that Mr. Covington was home; a light was on, and I saw a curtain move, but she refused to answer the door.”
“I heard those men talking while I was down in the well. I’m more certain than ever that they’re as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. They want Ted and Abigail to sign something over to them.”
“But Abigail said she and her brother have no property.”
“I know. I can’t make head nor tail of it. I’m too miserable to think about anything now.”
I paused beside a tree, removed one of my shoes and poured a little water from it. I put that shoe back on and repeated the procedure with the other shoe.
“To tell you the truth, Flo, I’m not sure whether I found anything or not.”
“But you said—”
“I know. Just as I reached the top of the well, I noticed a section of brick wall which seemed to be cracked in the exact shape of a rectangle.”
“Was that all?”
“I didn’t even take time to examine it. I was so chilled that all I could think about was getting out of there. However, I suspect that if I removed those loose bricks, there could be an opening behind them.”
“A secret hiding place?”
“Possibly, but it would be quite a large opening. I think it’s more likely that the loose bricks conceal the opening to a tunnel.”
“Can we remove the bricks without hiring a workman?”
“If they are as loose as I think they are, I might be able to get them out myself. Not tonight, however.”
I felt in no mood to discuss future possibilities or even to consider them. Already cold, the misty air made me feel as if a princely frog were breathing lovingly down my neck.
“Better get straight home, have a hot bath and go to bed,” Florence advised as we climbed aboard Bouncing Betsy. “We’ll talk things over in the morning.”
I entered my house through the kitchen door, hoping to avoid seeing Mrs. Timms—or more to the point, avoid Mrs. Timms seeing me. Luck was not with me. Mrs. Timms, who chanced to be in the kitchen making herself a soothing cup of chamomile to combat a recent spate of insomnia, saw me in all my bedraggled glory.
“Jane! What have you done to yourself?”
“Nothing,” I mumbled. “I’m just a little wet. Funny how that just seems to happen when one’s been down in a well.”
“There are times when your jokes don’t seem at all funny,” Mrs. Timms said. “How did you manage to ruin your clothes? I might be able to salvage your dress, but there’s nothing to be done for that coat and those shoes—not to mention your stockings.”
“It’s the truth, Mrs. Timms. I was down in a well. It just so happens that it’s quite wet down wells. And mossy.”
“You can’t expect me to believe you were down a well. Now, tell me exactly what did happen.”
“Would it seem more reasonable to you if I said that I stumbled and fell into a ditch?”
“I rather thought something of the sort had happened. How did the accident occur?”
“It didn’t,” I said and escaped upstairs before Mrs. Timms could question me any further.
I took a hot bath and went to bed. As I lay in bed, I could hear a murmur of voices in the living room below and knew that Mrs. Timms must be discussing me and my disheveled condition with my father. I had distressed Mrs. Timms, but it couldn’t be helped. Sometimes, even when one tells the unvarnished truth, all the listener wants to hear is a bald-faced lie.
I slept soundly and did not awaken until the Sunday morning sun was high in the heavens. I sat up in bed and moved my arms experimentally. They were very sore and stiff. I swung my feet to the floor and groaned with pain.
“Guess I can’t take it anymore,” I muttered to myself. “I must be getting soft, or else it’s old age sneaking up on me.”
I tortured myself for ten minutes doing a few Swedish limbering exercises. Then I dressed and went downstairs. Mrs. Timms had gone off to church while Dad submerged himself in all fifty-eight pages of the Sunday paper. I detoured around the living room to the kitchen and prepared myself a belated breakfast. I was picking the nuts out of a fruit salad I’d found in the icebox when my father appeared in the doorway.
“Jane—” he began.
“Where was I last night? I’ve said it before, and I will now repeat it—I was down a well! A nice deep well with a couple of feet of water in the bottom.”
“When you’re ready to tell me the real story, I shall listen,” Dad said. “But how a grown woman contrives to come dragging home in the condition Mrs. Timms described, I’ll never—”
“Dad, I’m serious about the well story. It’s the unvarnished truth.”
My father shook his head mournfully and muttered something under his breath about getting my head checked. He followed up that offensive remark by saying something about Jack not knowing what he was getting into.
I asked my father if Jack had mentioned anything to him about his recent fascination with bowling.
“Bowling?” my father said. “Baseball, maybe, but I can’t imagine Jack Bancroft taking up bowling.”
Then Dad withdrew to the living room and the remaining unread twenty-five pages of his Sunday paper.
I had lost my appetite for breakfast. I barged out the kitchen door into the yard. I needed to clear my head with a bit of deep breathing in the fresh air.
I had an AWOL gentleman-friend who had either gotten far too enamored with his new hobby, or, even more depressing, had no new hobby and was hiding something from me.
On top of that depressing possibility was the fact that my nearest and dearest refused to take me seriously. My father and Mrs. Timms acted as if they were contemplating hauling me off to have my head examined.
As I sat moping on the front steps, a milk wagon clattered to a stop in front of the house. The driver came up the walk with his rack of milk bottles. I eyed him speculatively.
I had a sudden inspiration. What I needed was an ally in the house. If I could clear the basement of all the old junk and brighten it up a bit, I might be able to convince Florence to fly the coop and come to roost in our basement.
“We have a lot of old bottles in the basement,” I said to the milk wagon man. “Does your company pay for them?”
“Sorry,” the milkman said. “We use only our own stamped bottles. There’s no deposit charge. Customers are expected to return them without rebate. Maybe you could sell your old bottles to a second-hand dealer. I saw one on the next street about five minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“He was on Fulton Avenue when I drove past.”
I thanked the milkman and ran as fast as my stiff limbs would permit to the next street corner. Far up the avenue, I saw the battered old car of the second-hand man. I hurried on and reached the automobile just as its owner came from a house carrying an armful of corded newspapers.
“Excuse me, Mr.—” I said, not even waiting to catch my breath.
“Butterworth, Ma’am, at your
service,” the second-hand dealer said, doffing his cap and eyeing my disheveled condition brought on by sprinting down the street.
“Mrs. Jane Carter,” I told him. “Charmed to meet you, Mr. Butterworth. Do you buy old bottles?”
“I buy newspapers, old furniture, rubber tires, copper, brass, or silver, but no bottles.”
I barely registered this discouraging information because I was too busy staring at the man. His appearance fascinated me.
“I saw you at Roseacres. You’re the one person who has been inside the house. I want you to tell me all about it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Mr. Butterworth, the second-hand dealer, seemed at a loss about how to respond to my abrupt request.
“Please, tell me how the house looks inside,” I repeated. “Is it as handsome as folks say?”
“Are you a friend of Mrs. Covington?”
“Of course.”
“But you’ve never set foot inside the house at Roseacres?”
I nodded my head. He was not an unreasonable man, this Mr. Butterworth. I’d have asked the same questions myself.
“Then why don’t you ask Mrs. Covington about the interior at Roseacres yourself?”
“Because she never invites anyone into her house,” I explained, patting futilely at my fly-away hair and trying hard to look like a sane and reasonable person. “You’re the only living soul to get inside the place, so far as I know. I’ll venture she sold you something. Am I right?”
“Maybe so.” Mr. Butterworth grinned. “My lips are sealed.”
“Sealed?”
“I promised Mrs. Covington I’d tell nothing of what I saw in the house.”
“Why did you go to the house?”
“Mrs. Covington sent for me.”
“But why? Did Mrs. Covington sell you something?”
“Maybe she did, and maybe she didn’t,” Mr. Butterworth said as he climbed into his overloaded car. “You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
He again doffed his cap and drove away. I watched his car until it was out of sight and then returned to my own doorstep. I was listlessly throwing acorns to a squirrel when Florence came down the street, dressed in her Sunday best.
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 24